For the Love of the Dance
by PL
Summary: A Chorus Line - Paul attempts to find solace in the one thing he could rely on in the past...


My small "A Chorus Line" fic, though it could be called original, since there's no real references to the actual play. In case no one could tell, this is about Paul. When I saw this play at our local theatre, I immediately fell in love with it. As soon as Paul came onstage, though, he caught my attention, and I fell in love with him as well. Everything about him radiated sadness and hopelessness, and after that monologue... Well, I just had to write something about him after that. Brief thanks to Brandon Currie, the actor who played Paul in this version. He was so polite when he spoke with us after the show. ^_^  
  
Anyway, please enjoy my little fic, which only begins to scratch the surface of Paul's personality. It helps to have a little knowledge of ACL, by the way. ^^  
  
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Eleven o'clock. Somewhere far off, a bell tolled, sounding the hour. Moonlight wafted through a dirty window to pool upon a slim figure seated on the floor. Absentmindedly, the thin man brushed back a stray lock of hair with one hand, eyes focused on the object lying on the ground before him, bathed in cold moonlight. With one trembling finger, he lifted the latch on the small box. The lid swung open slowly, catching the light for a brief instant and casting soft fairy lights upon the walls and man's face. A tiny sculpted figurine, worn by time, twirled slowly and shakily around, arms lifted gracefully above its head. Soft music broke the silence of the dark apartment and added to its aura of sadness.  
  
Shakily, the man stood up, wobbling on thin legs for a few moments before catching his balance. He lifted his arms up, perfect mimicry of the dancer figurine, and threw his head back, arching his back in a ballet pose. Slowly, he lifted himself up onto his toes, thus completing the imitation of the painted dancer. He twirled slowly around on the tips of his toes, in perfect time with the toy ballerina and her beautiful simple music. His face wore the most innocent of expressions, free of worry, pain, and full of peace.  
  
As the music continued, the man leapt from the slow pirouette and spun gracefully around, twirling majestically with the poise of one well- aquatinted with ballet. With another leap into the air, he switched to a faster tempo, jumping high into the air, landing to spin, faster and faster, until he released himself into a slow turn and continued into a hopping dance from one side of the room to another. One leg lifted itself into the air as he stopped and twirled slowly once more.  
  
Suddenly, one of his feet slipped, and the man's legs gave way under him. A soft cry passed his lips as he lost his balance and fell to the floor. One foot slammed into the painted music box, which slid, spinning, across the hardwood floor to smash into the wall below the dirty window. The sculpted ballerina flew from the box, hitting the ground and shattering into a million glittering pieces. The music stopped abruptly.  
  
The silence was broken by a soft whimper from the crumpled form of the man. Slowly, he lifted himself up onto his hands and knees. Shaking his head to clear it of pain's haze, his vision sharpened as the broken music box came into view. With a gasp, he began to crawl desperately towards it, breath escaping him with little cries at the pain to which he paid no heed. All that mattered was that beautiful, broken box that lay on the ground like a corpse, music silenced.  
  
He reached the fragments of the box and heaved himself into a kneeling position beside it. With trembling hands, he reached out and caressed the dead form of the box, willing it with all of his heart to play once more its beautiful melody. Slowly, as if afraid of the inevitability of the situation, he lifted the cracked form, wincing as a few pieces broke away and fell to the ground with noises that seemed unbearable.  
  
Frustrated tears filled the eyes of the young man as he clenched his hands into fists and wiped at his eyes desperately. Sobbing, he clutched at the silent music box and broken ballerina, trying desperately to fit the shards of porcelain back together once more. The slivers of glass pierced into the tender flesh of his hand and drew dozens of crimson droplets of blood, sparkling in the moonlight like tiny jewels. He paid no heed to his new injury and began to piece the figure together. As his hands shook violently, the shards scraped together and broke, scattering shimmering pieces to the floor.  
  
Distraught, he dropped the box and lay on the floor, sobbing, mourning not so much for the music box, but for the loss the music, which had always silenced itself no matter what he did to prevent it. He mourned for the loss of youth, the loss of a dream, and the broken ballerina on the floor, and of the innocence it represented  
  
Midnight. The same bell sounded again, harsh against the stillness of the night, crying out again and again until it struck the hour and fell silent. As the echoes of the bell reverberated and disappeared, the silence washed over the scene once more, cruel and uncaring and paying no heed to the crumpled form on the ground, which caught the light briefly with each shuddering inhalation. 


End file.
